


Ready to Fly

by runbravelybackward (victorienne)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: M/M, Sadstuck, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorienne/pseuds/runbravelybackward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alpha Stridercest in an AU where Dave and Dirk lived at the same time.</p>
<p>Dave gives Dirk his SBAHJ tattoo, and when Dirk realizes it's the last day they'll be spending together, he wants to make sure they each have something to remember one another by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready to Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VenneFag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenneFag/gifts).



> For best effect, please listen to [this song](http://youtu.be/KiP_gFYjoGY) while you're reading. It will make sense later.
> 
> Dirk is aged up to 19 in this AU, and Dave is in his early 20s.

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you are currently sitting on your bathroom counter while your Bro, the famous Dave Strider, sits next to you on the toilet--the lid of which is down, for once. You laughed at just how aggressively he scrubbed every surface of your apartment's bathroom. You've always done most of the cleaning yourself (a habit formed before you had to hole up in your apartment to avoid the Condesce's detection when he was away at work all the time), but getting Dave to even wash the dishes on occasion was like trying to remove the incisors from a bear--pointless and ultimately more harmful than useful. But he insisted that, as a certified professional, he "had some fucking standards" regardless of whether or not he could get you to a legitimate tattoo parlor for this.

"You sure about this?" he asks, yet again.

"Completely positive. Just get on with it."

"All right, calm your heaving mammaries, you little shit." Somehow, he manages to make that phrase sound almost like an endearment. Almost.

You watch Dave as he takes out the contents of the bag a contact of his brought to your apartment several days ago, since he couldn't risk giving away your home's location by going to get the equipment he needed himself. He pulls on black latex gloves and pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a disposable razor. After pouring alcohol onto a piece of paper towel, he rubs the top of your right arm with it. Dropping the used towel into the trash, he takes the plastic cover off the razor and shaves the thin blond hairs off that same part of your arm. He gently brushes his lips against the center of that spot, and your heartbeat speeds up for just a moment.

After cleaning the area on your arm off again with another alcohol-damp paper towel, he dampens the transfer with the design of your tattoo on it and presses it to your skin. Next, he turns to the pieces of the tattoo machine. He rips open the bag of two sterilized needles, loads the needle into the barrel, attaches it to the rest of the machine, and wraps a rubber band around it to keep the needle from rattling. He peels the transfer off of your arm, leaving a tracing of the design as a guide. Then, after he attaches the clip cords and positions the foot pedal, he opens a bottle of black ink and pours some into a tiny ink cap.

He dips the needle into the ink and fails to warn you before pressing his foot to the pedal. You jump at the sudden buzzing next to you, starting to feel nervous about this. You expect him to give a mildly scathing remark in response to your un-Striderly reaction, but instead, he leans over and kisses the top of your shoulder next to your collar bone.

"Relax. Just breathe. The first minute is the worst. You can do this."

You nod and feel the tension fade from your body. Everything just makes so much more sense when he says it--except his absurd ironic statements. Those never make sense.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

You look at him, meeting his deep red eyes for a moment before you both turn your attention to your arm. He touches the needle to your arm, and when he begins, it feels like something is pinching your skin. It doesn't feel as terrible as you expected, and sometimes, when Dave wipes the excess ink away, he leans over to kiss the top of your shoulder again. You relax as Dave arrives at something of a rhythm, and your thoughts start to drift.

You know something's up. He wouldn't have just consented to give you this tattoo, even though you've been begging him for it for years. He's been acting strange lately, anyhow--calling in favors from lots of contact, holing himself up in his office all day, giving in to nearly all your requests. You know what he's planning, and by now, he must know that you know.

After a few minutes, he stops, and you look down at your arm. The tattoo is clearly unfinished, the shape just a simple outline of the face you requested. You raise an eyebrow, and he holds up another packet with a different needle. "Magnum needle for shading." He takes the other needle out of the machine and is about to wrap it up to dispose of it. You decide to inform him of your other idea.

"Don't toss it yet. I want another one after this."

He tilts his head, giving no indication whether or not he'll acquiesce. "That so?"

You nod. "On my back. I want crow wings." You don't know exactly why, but he has countless paintings and models of crows in his room and his office--a place where no one but the two of you are allowed. SBAHJ is a symbol of what Dave means to the world, but the crow wings are a symbol of what Dave means to you.

He opens his mouth to say something before closing it again. He understands. Setting the needle aside, he leans over to press his lips to yours. The kiss is slow and warm, and you bring your hand up to rest on the shoulder that yours will soon match. But, too soon, he breaks the kiss, taking a moment to look you in the eye while his face is close to yours before sitting back down to carefully put in the new needle.

In no time, the tattoo on your shoulder is finished, and he covers it with a bandage before replacing the magnum needle with the liner needle and setting the tattoo machine down. He pulls off his gloves before getting up and pressing his hands to your cheeks, holding you steady as he kisses you deeply, but briefly.

"I'll be right back." He hurries out of the bathroom, and you sigh impatiently.

You know for certain now that he's leaving. Probably tonight. Maybe tomorrow. You want to spend all the time you have left with him. The last few months of self-imposed house arrest have been hard on both of you, but you've enjoyed spending so much time with him, and you know he feels the same. You knew he would do something like this eventually, but you had hoped that maybe he'd take you with him. You'd hoped that maybe he would be selfish enough to not want to let you go.

After what seems like ages, Dave comes back with a large sheet of tracing paper which he holds up for you to look at. "This ok?"

He's drawn an asymmetrical pair of wings--one is full and graceful, the other, cut off and broken, dripping blood. "Yeah, it's perfect."

"Sweet." He returns to his seat, and you turn to give him access to your bare back. He presses the paper to your skin, massaging your back a little as he does so. "This one's going to hurt more. And you're not going to want to sleep on your back for a while."

You smile slightly to yourself. "Guess who gets to top tonight, then."

He gives you a small but genuine laugh in response and kisses the back of your neck before carefully pulling the tracing paper away. You hear him sit back down and pull on his gloves before picking up the tattoo machine and dipping the needle into the black ink. When the needle presses against your shoulder blade, you resist the urge to squirm away. But you endure it, earning you occasional kisses to your hair and neck and shoulders when Dave pauses to wipe off excess ink or verify that the design is as he wants it.

When he finishes the lines for both wings and pauses to switch the needle, you decide you've both been quiet for long enough. "Dave, tell me a story."

"Are you five now? I don't think I should be stabbing ink into a five-year-old's skin. I think that would officially label me a shitty guardian. CPS has a category for that. The lowest of the low: older brothers who tattoo their little brothers until they look like they've done time. But maybe if I give you one of those 'Mom' tats, they'll let me off with a warning, its being a parental thing and all."

You can't help but laugh. You've both done that a lot more often since you finally admitted to yourselves that you were "a thing." It feels good to not have to hide anything from him and to know that, even when he means to, in order to keep you safe and happy (as much as you can be, in these circumstances), he can't hide anything from you, either.

"Yeah, Bro, I think they're going to come take me away."

"Over my bloodied, decaying corpse."

"You should prepare for a siege, then."

"Better start boiling the oil."

"On that shitty stove, it'll be ready if they get here in a week."

He goes quiet, and you remember that, according to his extremely obvious hints, he won't be here in a week.

"Once upon a time, there was this princess," he begins, raising his volume slightly as he begins to color in the tattoo's lines.

"I'm the princess, aren't I?"

"Who's telling the story here? Not you. Anyway, there was this princess who was such a royal pain in the ass" (You roll your eyes at his terrible pun.) "that her parents had to stick her in a tower because they couldn't fucking stand her whining about wanting stories all the fucking time."

"What the fuck, Dave."

"She was so damn annoying that they even had to hire a dragon--"

"'Hire' a dragon?"

"Yeah, they drew up a contract. But he couldn't read it, so they gave him a shit-ton of gold and shiny shit. He probably could have negotiated for more if he had just joined a union, but he was too fucking lazy for that. He made the lazy asshole choice and just settled for what they gave him.

"Anyway, they hired a dragon and left the princess out there in the middle of nowhere. They even paid some hack wizard who was out of work to move their castle for them so the princess couldn't find her way back. But the wizard was a douche, and he was out of work for a reason. That reason being that he was fucking terrible at everything but crapping out love potions that were just really strong moonshine. So they paid this asshole way too much and ended up with half their castle in the ocean because that's what fucking happens when you pay someone upfront who has no references and don't draw up a contract. He drops half your castle in the water and absconds the fuck out of there while you learn, several months after beginning a fruitless search for him, that he was using an assumed name the whole time and probably doesn't actually have a three-foot-long beard which is a requirement of every wizard's guild. He's nowhere near worthy of a sage old magic-user beard."

You wait a minute for him to continue, but he remains silent as he continues his work on your tattoo. "What about the princess and the dragon?"

"Who gives a shit about them? This is a cautionary tale about not believing that every old man with a long-ass beard is going to be able to adequately relocate your living space."

"Did she at least get rescued?"

"Nope, she was stuck there with that dragon for the rest of her life."

"So the dragon is you."

"Yeah, it's me.

"What do you think of being stuck with the princess for the rest of your life?"

"It's not too bad."

If only he could stay for the rest of both your lives.

You spend the rest of the time it takes him to finish the color and shading in relative silence. The pain has dulled to a slightly uncomfortable but relatively painless sensation by the time he finishes the drops of blood on the broken wing with deep red ink. He hands you a small mirror, and you turn so you can see the full tattoo in the double reflection. The tip of the full folded wing reaches nearly to your waist, and the drops of blood from the broken wing give the design some symmetry. It strikes you that the same person who spent several minutes on a SBAHJ tattoo on your arm also spent about two hours designing and applying this graceful set of wings, and you smile to yourself. You set the mirror down on the counter and cup Dave's cheek in your hand before pressing your lips to his. He immediately kisses you back, bringing his hand up to your untattooed shoulder.

But after a minute, he breaks the kiss and leans over to pull the gauze off the tattoo on your shoulder. "Don't want to wait any longer and pull out ink with the clotted blood. That'd ruin the whole thing." You look down at the tattoo and smile. It's still too new to seem real, but you're glad you badgered him to give it to you. "Turn. I have to bandage this sick design I just gave you."

"Hold your horses, Bro." You shift, and the gauze stings a bit as he applies it.

"All right, you're done. Get out while I clean up."

You roll your eyes and hop off the counter to head for Dave's room. By now, it's really your room, too, since his is large enough to accommodate you both--and then some. You sit down on the edge of his luxurious king-size bed and look around the room. The baby grand in the far corner of the room catches your eye--as it always does. He's never been able to explain to your satisfaction why, exactly, he has a piano sitting in his room. He just says it feels right, somehow. You remember, when you were little and had nightmares, you would come into his room, and he would play piano for you until you fell asleep in his bed. Most people who didn't know Dave might have expected him to play shitty covers of popular songs (which he did do occasionally, of course), but most of his music is his own original compositions. They're slow and sweet and melancholic, and you know that, sometimes when he's composing, his eyes tear up a little. It's always a speck of dust or dry eye or something--he never cries, of course. Only when he's in your arms.

When Dave comes in, he glances at you, then at the piano. He smiles at you gently, making your heart flutter, before he goes to sit on the piano bench. After a few experimental scales, he stretches out his arms, then begins to play. It's one of your favorite songs, warm and full and wistful. There is so much pain and hope in the melody that it always tugs at your heart. But this time, it brings all your feelings to the surface: fear and sadness and frustration and longing. You go to sit next to him on the piano bench and watch his fingers drift across the keys.

You don't want to be alone. And you don't want him to be alone. You want to be there when he needs someone to take comfort and take care of him. Even if he has one of his contacts from the resistance to help him, no one knows him like you do. They won't know that he dips his toast in syrup and that he dumps half a bowl of sugar in his coffee. They won't know that, after a hard day, the only way to get him to relax is to rub his shoulders and whisper in his ear all the things that make him perfect. They won't know that he actually thinks he's worthless, that he needs someone to tell him how brilliant and funny and attractive he is.

But you do know.

When he finishes the song, he reaches out and pulls you into his arms, pressing his lips to your hair. Then, he leans back and brushes your cheeks with his thumbs--you didn't realize you were crying. You can see that his eyes are red, too, and you lean in to kiss him on the lips. He puts his arms around the top of your shoulders, careful not to press against your raw skin.

Your lips work against each other in a slow rhythm until you feel Dave's lips part. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth and runs his tongue along it, drawing a small moan from your throat. He hums pleasantly at your reaction and takes you by the elbows as he stands, pulling you up with him. Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvers you away from the piano, guiding you toward the bed. His hands drop to your waist, and he turns his attention to unfastening your belt while you start to push his shirt up his chest. You take advantage of his distraction by slipping your tongue into his mouth. He moans and touches his tongue to yours, making you shiver as you begin to feel the pressure in your pants build. He finally unbuckles your belt, and you push him back slightly to work his shirt off. You toss his shirt to the side before returning your lips to his, and both of you return your hands to the buttons and zippers on each other's pants.

By the time you manage to push his pants and boxers down, he's still fumbling with your zipper. You pull away and laugh lightly as you bat his hands away to take care of it yourself. When you finally manage to free your growing erection, you sigh before stepping out of your pants and pulling your socks off as quickly as you can. By the time you've finished, Dave lying on his back on the bed. You pause for a moment, biting your lip as you take in the sight. God, is he gorgeous. Sure, his dick, flushed and erect, is hot as hell, but your eyes scan his whole form. He's lanky, but he has a bit of toned muscle under his pale, freckled skin. His sandy blond hair frames his face just so, and his bright red eyes betray all his emotions--but only to you.

Your breath hitches in your throat when he smiles up at you, and you can see how much he needs this last night with you. You're not about to deny him that. Climbing onto the bed, you straddle his hips, leaning on one arm as you stroke his cheek. You kiss his hair, his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, then you go straight for his jaw and down to his neck. It may be your last night together, but you're not about to let him get away without some of your usual teasing. You kiss down his neck slowly, sucking as you do so. Eventually, he can't hold back a moan, and he squirms underneath you. Pressing your tongue to his skin, you suck hard enough that you know a mark will appear there later.

You feel his hands on your hips, trying to push them toward his. You gladly indulge him, groaning against his neck as his dick presses against yours. Propping yourself up, you look into his eyes, and you know you could never feel this way with anyone else. He presses his hand to the back of your head and pulls you down toward him until your lips meet. The kiss is slow and deep, and before long, you've opened your mouth, and his tongue finds its way inside. You continue to rut against each other as he explores your mouth, and you savor the taste of him.

You reach down and take his dick in your hand, pumping it slowly, and he gasps through his nose. He's already surprisingly hard, so you slow down even more. Maybe, if you can make this night last forever, he won't be able to leave. You pull back to hover above him as you stroke his length, watching his face reflect your every movement. In no time, you have him squirming and humping your hand, needy sounds escaping his throat.

"Dirk... please..." You know his unspoken reason: _I don't have much time._

You choke back a sob as you close your eyes and crush your lips against his. He kisses you back urgently, and you know that you can't tease him endlessly tonight. You can't bear to.

Breaking the kiss and sitting up, you pull the lube off the bedside table and pop it open. You squeeze some onto your fingers and gently spread it around his opening. He takes slow, steady breaths in preparation, and you slowly press one finger inside. He groans at the sensation, the sound more discomfort than pleasure. You lean over to kiss his forehead. He's let you fuck him before, but he still gets nervous every time.

"Shh, it's ok. Relax. I won't go too fast."

He nods, forcing himself to breathe steadily. "I know."

When he seems to have gotten used to one finger, you pull it out to press back inside with two. He gasps but immediately forces himself to relax. You rest your forehead against his and close your eyes as you pant in rhythm. "I love you."

He leans up slightly to kiss you on the lips. "I love you, too."

You move your fingers inside him, brushing your fingertips along the front wall, hoping you hit his sweet spot. When you do, he arches up, and his eyes open wide in surprise before fluttering closed again. "Ahhh... Diiirk..."

You immediately press your lips to his to catch your name as it escapes his throat. As you continue to stroke his prostate, he's too overwhelmed by the sensation to move his lips against yours, but you're content to catch all of his moans and attempts at words in your mouth. Then, when you're beyond certain that all his groans are ones of pleasure, you concentrate on spreading him enough to accommodate your still-unattended dick. You withdraw your fingers, and he moans. Spreading lube over your length as quickly as you can, you press your tip against his opening, and he makes a small noise of simultaneous need and nervousness.

Leaning down to look at him, you brush the hair off his forehead with your clean hand. "I'm not going to hurt you. We'll go as slowly as you like."

He gives you a small, nervous smile. "I know."

You smile down at him affectionately before kissing him briefly. Taking a deep breath, you push inside him. He gasps, and you stop immediately, rubbing his shoulder until he relaxes. "You're safe. It's just me." He gives a shaky sigh that's almost a sob before letting himself relax completely. You feel his arms wrap around your shoulders, and you start to move again.

After pausing a few more times, you're completely inside him, and the pressure and warmth surrounding your length makes you moan. He's doing his best to relax for you, and it means everything to know how much he trusts you. "God, Dave, how can you be this perfect?"

He laughs breathlessly. "It's a gift."

You laugh, too, and lean down to kiss him before pulling back out. He groans at your absence, but you thrust back in slowly, pausing once when he asks. Soon, though, you've established a rhythm, and he's starting to push against you as you speed up. You bring your hand up to pump his erection, and he moans with every exhale, clinging to your shoulders and pulling you closer. You're both too caught up to be able to kiss, so you press your forehead to his, matching your panting breaths to one another.

His breath hitches, and you know he's getting close. Any other night, you might stop everything and tease him until he begged for release. But tonight, you can't bear to do that to him. You want him to be perfectly happy for every moment you have left together. So you keep stroking his length and thrust toward that spot as best you can, once, twice. He shudders and cries out your name as he comes. And from the momentary added pressure surrounding your erection, you follow immediately, too lost in sensation to realize that you cried out his name, too.

After a few moments of panting to recover, you pull out of him and collapse onto the bed beside him. You roll over and drag yourself off the bed, staggering a little as you head for the bathroom. There, you dampen a washcloth before returning to the bedroom. He's sprawled out, still catching his breath, as you clean him gently. When you're finished, you look at his face. He's clearly exhausted, but he's giving you a look so full of warmth and affection. Setting the washcloth aside, you lie down on your side next to Dave and pull him toward you.

He wraps his arms around you, and upon touching the bandage still covering your tattoo, he grumbles, "Need to get that off before you fall asleep." You groan in annoyance, not wanting to move now that you're in his arms, but he forces you to roll onto your stomach. He sits up and carefully peels off the gauze. Wadding it up, he's about to get off the bed to dispose of it, but realizing the state he's in, he turns and thrusts the wad of bandages toward you. You turn to smirk at him but take it from him and pitch it toward the trash can. Close enough.

You turn back onto your side, and Dave lies down next to you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against him. Encircling his waist with your arms, you curl up against him, your forehead against his shoulder and your lips hovering just above his heart. He holds you more tightly and presses his lips against your hair. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

He pauses a moment before pulling you even closer. "I love you."

The lump in your throat and tears in your eyes prevent you from speaking, but you wrap your arms around him so tightly you're afraid you might crush him.

"I love you, Dirk."

You sob against his chest, and you feel him bring a hand up to stroke your hair.

By the time you fall asleep, you've cried until you had no more tears, and your hair is damp with his. But even though he's why you're so sad and afraid, he's so warm and comforting that you can't help but relax eventually. Your last sensation before drifting off is his hand stroking your hair as he softly hums a lullaby he would sing to you when you were small.

  


You wake up, warm under the covers as pale light threads through the blinds. It illuminates the empty indentation in his pillow, and you curl up into yourself. Your body is wracked with the sobs you have left, and it's several minutes before you can bring yourself to move at all. You reach out toward the empty space he occupied, and your hand brushes against something under the covers. It's small and thin, glossy on one side. You pick it up and pull it out from underneath the sheets to bring to where you can see it.

It's a photograph of the inside of Dave's forearm--you know it's his; you've memorized the pattern of freckles and scars. But there's a new addition: a pair of wings tattooed in white ink. They're birds' wings, gulls' wings--full and unbroken, stretched out and ready to fly. He's not really leaving you behind. He's carrying you with him, wherever he goes.

You shake as you press the photograph to your lips, closing your eyes tightly. He knows that you're strong, but it won't hurt to be a little weak for a bit longer. You know you'll never see him again, but you know he's doing this for you. He's left the nest first, but it won't be long before you're ready to fly, too.


End file.
